Page 83 of Double Down
Phoenix. Awareness sets in. The second I know it’s her next to me, my body unlocks. I’m about to slide under again when the phone on the nightstand, face down, stutters, the vibration sending it skittering across the polished wood surface.
“Atticus?” Phoenix murmurs, half asleep.
I reach over and silence the notification with my thumb, then lift the screen to glance at the time. “Shh. Go back to sleep.”
She nuzzles under my jaw like she’s trying to anchor me to the bed. I want to let her. I want to sink into her and let the hotel burn.
Two hours. That’s all I’ve had. Eighty-nine minutes with her skin on mine—the first time in days that my mind sank quiet into slumber without a fight, and I actually slept.
The phone buzzes again, crushing any hope of more. Maybe ten people have this number, not counting the Titans. It’s thelast line of defense—an emergency line. If someone calls this, someone’s dead, bleeding, or in jail.
I slide my arm out from under her, lift her head with the heel of my hand, trade my shoulder for a pillow. She makes a small sound, fingers closing on the sheet, and my annoyance spikes because leaving her alone is wrong. Our scene was interrupted. It was intense—not nearly as intense as I wanted, but it was still a scene.
I owe her aftercare. I need it just as much as she does, and walking out like this is fucked.
The phone buzzes again, and I know—I have to go.
“I’ll be right back,” I lie to both of us, kiss her hair, then slip from the bed.
I dress in the dark: slacks, a shirt I don’t bother buttoning all the way, no tie. Hermes pool slides. The hallway outside is still the color of pre-dawn, windows washed in the blue of a sun that hasn’t committed yet.
I crack the door and glance back. Phoenix turns once, reaching for me, and my chest pulls tight.
The phone goes again. I hang my head, close the door, answer. “This had better be a bomb threat.”
“It’s worse,” the night manager says. He’s aiming for calm and missing. “The downstairs lobby is swarming with paramedics, and the police are with them. There was another group of ODs. Eighteenth floor.”
My jaw locks. I won’t be getting back in that bed. “How many?”
“Three confirmed, one unresponsive. Another five…it’s not good, boss. The paramedics are saying it’s fentanyl cut with something. Narcan isn’t working, so benzos, maybe? One guy from the same party is swearing the crushed pills came from our bar.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it as well as I do.” I don’t need to check to know. We make plenty with the hotel, its restaurants, the casinos on land and boat. Risking it all by selling drugs in-house would be suicidal. The money wouldn’t be worth the risk or the potential exposure.
This has set-up written all over it.
“I know.” The manager is still speaking, and with difficulty I draw my attention back to him. “He was in a private cabana by the pool earlier. Same crowd. He’s…being loud. Creating a scene. Threatening to call the news if we don’t make him a better offer for his silence.”
“Contain him in a back office,” I say. “Security holds him only—no hands, no bruises. We do this clean. And make sure we get every party guest’s name in writing.”
I’m already at my office desk, waking a spare laptop, hands moving by muscle memory to access the security network. My fingers feel thick, a step behind my brain. Moving on two hours of sleep after four days isn’t enough, regardless of how many energy drinks I consume. I’m going to crash at some point.
I’m going to crash hard.
“Police already have the loud guy,” the manager says, poking his head around the door jamb, “but they also want access to CCTV. Hall cams and elevator feeds from midnight. No warrant yet, but they’ll be getting one.”
Of course they will. “I’ll pull the feeds and make them a copy, but tell them to get the warrant anyway.”
“Atticus…they also asked for you personally.”
“Why?”
“Because a guest is implying the house sold them something.” He doesn’t have to finish the equation. The ‘house’ equals the Titans, which equals the casino which equals the resort which equals fucking everything. “I told them that wasn’t possible. They asked for bartender logs.”
My eyes burn with a headache that kindles at the base of my skull. “Send the logs. And tell them the only thing the house sells is overpriced bourbon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be down in ten.”
